


Nature vs Nurture

by herrkasekuchen



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: AU - Kidfic, Alternate Universe - Pre-Canon, Excessive Use of Parentheses, Gen, warning: swears! (bc hank)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-18
Updated: 2018-10-06
Packaged: 2019-06-12 14:21:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 19,176
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15341700
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/herrkasekuchen/pseuds/herrkasekuchen
Summary: Just when Lt. Hank Anderson feels like life can't honestly get any more shitty, life proves him wrong (again and again - with a passion). But maybe, what felt like a curse (with a cheerfully glowing LED) might just be life cutting him a break (he hears a pot falling and Sumo barking energetically).Or, maybe not.(Getting "better" is a learning process. So is humanity.)





	1. Night of Snow

CYBERLIFE inc. MODEL RK800. SERIAL#  313 248 317.

BOOTING . . .

MEMORY INITIALIZING . . .

 

_LOADING OS . . ._

SYSTEM INITIALIZATION . . . CHECKING BIOCOMPONENTS . . . (OK). INITIALIZING BIOSENSORS . . . (OK). INITIALIZING AI ENGINE . . . (OK). MEMORY STATUS . . . .

 _ALL SYSTEMS_ . . . (OK).

Ready.

* * *

January 14, 2037

Detroit Today: _CyberLife has just announced the newest android in a series of developments aimed at creating the ideal plasticine child! Differing slightly from the original YK series, this newest prototype, which has only been released in certain locations thus far, has assets far expanding past simply taking the part of a passive child. Alongside improved scanning and initiative (protocol “mommy’s little helper”!), the RK series has been planned to allow for the illusion of growth, with an option to subscribe to yearly maintenance with purchases. With each appointment, the child-android will be gradually altered to give the effect of a growing child. Even “growing pains” are an available extension, though of course, all complaints and whining can be whisked away at the push of a button! It’s the modern solution to a problem as old as people. Follow the Cyberlink below to subscribe to_ Detroit Today _and_ _receive more updates like this . . . ._

* * *

It was snowing and Hank was having a shitty day.

The two weren’t related. Not directly. No one but Hank would be able to connect the fact that the year his house went silent, the snowfall seemed to come especially early, as if ushering in the wake of grief. He can’t look at the damned white shit without thinking of—

He turned the car’s radio up higher, drumming out the sounds of his thoughts, of the snow.

A wry smile tugged at his lips as he turned onto his street at the thought of the giant Saint Bernard waiting for him— his house still wasn’t completely silent. Too quiet and he’d have probably gone insane already.

Shutting off the engine and slamming the door shut, he could still hear the metal pounding in his skull. Maybe he had already lost it. Fuck knew he wasn’t the best gauge of much of anything these days (his job was essentially looking at corpses). His eyes swept towards his house and he paused.

_What the fuck . . . ?_

Hank walked cautiously towards the door, hand drifting towards his hip out of habit, gun still holstered from work.

A box sat on the front porch— far too large and polished to be anything Hank would’ve ordered for himself. At the very least, he was pretty damn sure his coffee machine replacement wouldn’t have needed a box that was _four_ _feet tall_.

Hank scowled— if it was a “gift” from the boys at the station, he knew Reed was probably laughing his ass off by now. The thought didn’t stop him from scanning the box, walking around it once before roughly kicking his heel into its side.

“ _Jesus_!” he stumbled back when the package’s side smoothly hissed open, completely unaffected by Hank’s kick. His heart just about decided to tap out when a small figure crawled out of the box. Hank stumbled back, _fuck did he just kick a kid?_ Once his initial shock wore off, the ache from _before_ started back up. Snow and children— both things he’d rather not have to interact with ever again. The most children he ever saw now were the silent, shivering ones, left on the sides of crime scenes. Not that the ache ever really left— _fuck_ , he needed a drink.

“My name is Connor, I’m the android prototype sent by CyberLife, Mr. Anderson.” The boy smiled convincingly at Hank, blue LED shining cheerfully despite the evening gloom. His eyes shone with a disturbing likeness to life, as if it was actually excited to meet Hank— as if it wasn’t all just fake, stimulated “feelings”, as if it were more than just a program that was designed to _cause_ _Hank pain_.

The robot probably wasn’t even stiff from being cooped up in the box for however long it was there. It just _stood_ , patiently waiting for a response, brown doe eyes blinking and perfectly combed hair seeming untouched by the light snow. _Jesus_ , this was some uncanny valley shit.

Hank turned away from the android, unlocking his door and stepping inside. He was mentally calculating how quickly he’d have to move in order to slam the door precisely in the droid’s face, when it stepped forward purposefully, staring Hank in the face with all the genuineness of a seven-year-old (did traditional age even apply to a piece of plastic? It was probably fresh off the conveyor belt— beautifully built to ruin Hank’s evening).

“I like dogs,” it spoke earnestly as if it had sensed Hank’s intentions. “Animal pets are known to release oxytocin in humans, making them especially appropriate for those who live alone. I was able to detect sounds of a canine when I was initializing my systems.” It looked over the older man’s shoulder, blissfully ignorant of the way Hank tensed. “Can I meet your dog?”

It looked hopefully at Hank, the same look that had once made him melt.

But not with _its_ face. _Fake_ , Hank’s awfully sober mind whispered to him. Still, he paused, contemplating. Were androids susceptible to the cold? As he debated the possibility of being charged if the weird child-robot shut down on his front porch, it began speaking with that disconcerting semblance of concern.

“I can assist you if you are uncomfortable with acquainting me with your dog. My sensors detect that your blood pressure is spiking and that you’re experiencing a certain amount of stress, possibly the aftermath of some previous shock. I recommend that you activate any heating systems in your home, as it is currently twenty-three degrees Fahrenheit. This is far below what is deemed comfortable by the average human—”

“ _Christ_ — I didn’t order any fucked up dolls, go back to your maker,” Hank tried closing the door when Sumo lumbered up behind him. Sniffing at the back of Hank’s knees, the Saint Bernard padded past him and bumped against Connor. _Traitor_ , he scowled at the dog.

The older man just wanted to drag Sumo back inside, close the door, and return to his normal life of periodic homicide investigations separated by frequenting bars and a questionable alcohol habit. Why the hell did he never get quiet evenings?

“Sumo,” Hank started but paused, interested in the android’s response. The bot looked _confused_ for the first time since self-assuredly stomping up Hank’s house.

An expression that could only be described as the robotic equivalent of awe took over Connor’s young face. His LED flickered yellow for a moment before the blue returned. His hand hesitantly reached to pet Sumo (Hank considered warning him, but _ehh_ _, robot_ ). The huge Bernard froze as he realized the android was reciprocating the affections. _Ah, he’s a goner_.

Sumo barked loudly, suddenly excited at the prospect of a new friend ( _chew toy . . . ?_ ). He leaped up and promptly smothered the child android, licking and sniffing everywhere.

“According to my databases, this is not necessarily the atypical greeting of a domestic canine. Is this a form of ‘hazing’, Mr. Anderson?” Connor looked up plaintively from his pinned position on the ground. Fuck,e looked pathetic, perfectly groomed CyberLife hairdo gelled in various directions thanks to Sumo’s tongue. It was almost humorous, except Hank didn’t want to think of _that_ making him laugh. He bit back any laugh and made back to his house (it _was_ damn cold).

He turned back, noting Sumo’s comfortable position on the lump of plastic. Hank made his way into the messy kitchen, grabbing a chew toy on the way to the already partially filled glass from the night before. It wasn’t like he could just leave his dog out there to freeze.

“Sumo!” he tantalizingly squeezed the chew toy.

Sumo barked back enthusiastically. _Pew_ went the chew toy, bouncing into the back of the house. The Saint Bernard finally bounded inside after it. A smile tugged at his lips, “good boy!” A resounding bark responded.

Hesitantly, as if the dog would teleport back to crush him, Connor sat up. The disheveled look definitely made him look more human, Hank mused.

Groaning at the terribly lost look on the kid’s face, Hank rolled his eyes, tipping the dregs of his drink back. He blamed the lamentable eyes on the kid and him just wanting to shut the door to stop the cold draft. “Okay, get on in.”

As if remembering its purpose, the android stood up fluidly. “I do have some settings to calibrate with you, Mr. Anderson.”

“ _Fuckin’ hell_ , just get your ass inside. We can deal with that shit later, my balls are freezing off,” Hank groaned, rubbing his forehead. The glass in his hand was painfully empty. “Also, do you always have to sound like a damn professor?” Really, CyberLife had fucked up in its “immersive parenting experience” if this was their newest. _Mr. Anderson_ just made him _feel old_.

“All audio settings are adjustable when we begin the calib—”

“Okay, _okay_ — shut up and get the fuck inside.”

“Of course, Mr. Anderson.”

 _Jesus_.

* * *

 They entered the living room, Hank absentmindedly shoving a pile of papers off the couch to make room for them. CyberLife _did_ say the droids were designed to “not judge the messiest of households!”, though he didn’t particularly care either way. He gave a crooked smile to the android, whose LED lit up the dim room. “Be my guest,” he gestured sarcastically. Clearly, the temperature was the least of the house’s problems.

It sat down. “I will now proceed with the calibration process.”

“Hold the fuck up, _who_ sent you?” Hank furrowed his brow at Connor. He drank from his newly refilled glass of scotch, noting the android’s look of consternation.

“Mr. Anderson, this calibration process is extremely pertinent to how our relationship will thus develop. I would appreciate if you took this more seriously,” it analyzed the glass skeptically. “That whiskey has an alcohol content of 40%, I really don’t recommend—”

Hank defiantly knocked back the rest of the glass. “Okay listen, _kid_ , first lesson of father-son relationships. _Son_ does not question father.” He set his drink next to the numerous other glasses littering the sofa’s side table. “Now, _I_ recommend that you start talking. _Who sent you here_?”

Its LED flickered for a moment. “I- my name is Connor. I’m the android prototype sent by—” The stutter was disconcertingly _human_.

 _This is going nowhere_. Hank contemplated if this was why he was never put on interrogation.

“Okay, shut it with that. What’s that other fucking stuff you wanted me to do?” He rubbed his temples as the android stared at him. He wasn’t drunk enough for any of this yet.

The android raised its other hand, another holo-screen lighting up the dim room. “Apologies, Mr. Anderson, but my programs dictates that I cannot proceed until you have signed this form. The terms and conditions are as follows, please read through—”

Hank rolled his eyes and grabbed the tablet. He read as much to find the signature line and scribbled a scrawl on the line, “second lesson of just _life_ — jack-shit nobody reads those things. Now, how do I change your goofy voice and make you stop calling me _that_ name?”

Connor looked perturbed at how lackluster Hank was towards the contract ( or whatever it was, it wasn’t like Hank _read_ it). “I . . . I _am_ a prototype of a child android, so I am equipped with several dialogue style options. I can go for a speech level that would be expected for an average elementary schooler— my designated age— or if that is unpleasant for you, I can continue this level of speech at ‘average educated adult’. I also have features that allow me to analyze targeted individuals speech patterns to imitate them.”

Hank felt a grin tug at his lips, a real one. “Imitate me.”

“Excuse me?” Connor’s LED whirred yellow. The android almost looked perplexed by the thought.

“Jesus, were you just pulling my leg?” he poured himself more whiskey.

The android, paused a while longer, staring at the glass. “I’d let you go off and fucking drown yourself in more whiskey, but right now I’ve got shit to do and I’d like to finish up this damn calibration.” (Hank liked to think he wasn’t as shaken hearing his mannerisms come out of a child than he was. It didn’t help that the kid kept its voice’s pitch the same).

“ _Fuck_ , okay, turn that shit off.” He waved his hand at Connor, whose LED returned to a calm blue. It smiled at him as if proud it had managed to get a new reaction out of Hank. “Don’t make yourself sound like a child.” Out of anything, _that_ would probably break him. “I dunno, just . . . don’t sound like a fucking lecturer all the time, okay?”

Connor nodded at the rather abstract instructions, seeming pleased at at least being given instructions. “Calling you ‘Mr. Anderson’ seems to make you . . . uncomfortable. What would you prefer I address you as? Out of my databank, there are several that CyberLife has deemed appropriate for our situation, such as father, dad, daddy—”

Hank nearly spit out his whiskey. “ _Fuck_ , don’t say that shit in this household.”

“Father?”

“Jesus, no—” Hank groaned. He honestly wasn’t quite sure what he wanted the android to call him, any parental name was a . . . no (the ache was still there, one of the few constants in his life alongside the scotch). ‘Hank’ was too odd coming from a stranger— an android in the shape of a child, but a stranger nonetheless.

Connor looked at him expectantly, LED flickering yellow. “I’ve just searched up your files, I’ve identified you as a lieutenant— would that be an appropriate name?”

Hank scowled— he didn’t have enough alcohol for this shit. _Searched up your files_ — guess androids weren’t made with any sort of privacy filter either. He briefly wondered if it was able to access all the penalties he’d gradually accumulated over the past year. He didn’t want to wonder if that scan had included the shit  _before_.

“I don’t give a fuck, call me whatever.” He walked to the kitchen. Where alcohol failed, dogs wouldn’t. “Fucking machine,” he muttered to himself.

 _And of course_ , the fucking android followed him.

“What the hell do you want now?” Hank stared sharply at the innocently blinking child robot. _Infinite intelligence!_ CyberLife claimed.

“Lieutenant, the final stage of my calibration asks if you would like to subscribe to the yearly mechanical adjustments offered for the RK series.” _The illusion of growth_.

Hank took a deep breath, trying to steady himself (what sort of shitty alcohol makes one tipsy but not drunk enough to just _forget_ ?). He couldn’t help the unbidden, bitter thought that _he_ would never experience growing pains. “Fuck,” he breathed, running a hand over his weary face. “I don’t give a shit, do whatever.”

He wasn’t planning on keeping the metal bucket around that long anyway. But return shipping was a problem for tomorrow (alongside a hangover).

Sumo whined as Hank approached, cold nose butting against him. “C’mere boy,” he mumbled. He dragged his feet to bed, falling asleep with the warm weight of the Saint Bernard pressing against him.

He was thankful that _it_ didn’t bother him for the rest of the night.

* * *

Hank awoke to pots hitting the floor— whether from the kitchen or inside his head, he wasn’t quite sure. The bed was empty except for him and he flopped back in the wretched anticipation of having to clean up any mess Sumo had made.

He blinked at the clock blearily— _10:23_. Perfect, he still had two hours until Fowler was obligated to scold him. Seniority did have its perks in some instances. Distantly, Hank heard Sumo barking and groaned as his joints creaked when he finally managed to stand (noted: cons of seniority).

Haphazardly changing his shirt, he made his way to the bathroom. _First— piss, second— find shit to stop the fucking drill in my head, third— coffee_. Hank observed himself in the mirror for a moment. “Real sleepin’ beauty,” he grit out, splashing water on his face.

Almost half ready to face the world. But first, coffee and pills. Hank stepped into the hallway and entered the main area of his home until he paused for a moment, seriously contemplating turning back (he’d complain about the morning with Jeffrey, except the man would probably just chide Hank and blame it on him drinking. He’d argue back, _normally drinking doesn’t magically fucking produce a metal child_ ).

Sumo barked happily at Hank’s appearance— _fuck_ , caught. No going back now.

The Saint Bernard gave no excuse, innocently lounging on Connor as the android gave him a pleading look. A sloppy tongue ran across its face in response (to the kid’s credit, it didn’t flinch. It just looked . . . vaguely confused). At least the clanging pots Hank had sworn he’d heard were nowhere to be seen. New food was even in Sumo’s bowl.

In fact, Hank’s kitchen and living room were suspiciously clean. Nothing had really been moved around, but stacks were organized, and the numerous piles of bottles had been swept away. To some, the cleansing would be a sigh of relief— fuck knew why half of the idiots in Detroit purchased androids— but for Hank, it just felt . . . _invasive_. It was his goddamn house, _his_ goddamn mess. He’d had enough of people interfering with his life after the accident and hospital (damned place was full of people who poked their asses into shit they had no right).

He started up the pitifully groaning coffee machine, setting out one of his favorite mugs, which had _fuck androids_ eloquently printed in large, bold font. “I don’t want you poking your nose around my shit, got it?” Hank eyed the android for a response— unlike Connor, who probably had a built-in lie detector, he did not.

The android shifted a bit and promptly froze again when Sumo growled. “I- of course, lieutenant.” He frowned for a moment, “I think you should leave— it’s already far past when you should be heading to the station.”

At that, Hank really did laugh. “Yeah, and come back to see how you’ve fucked up my house? No thanks— come on, let’s find a return center for your plastic ass.” For a moment, he could almost believe Connor was a real flesh-and-blood child, somehow not in pain under the weight of a 170-pound dog, and almost felt bad for consistently cussing out a kid. Then he remembered— _fake. Machine._ Nothing could replace the real thing.

He ushered Sumo off it, and they headed out the door. Hank stared at the glowing triangle on Connor’s clothing (which was no longer the same pristine white, thanks to Sumo), half contemplating how it reflected badly on him if he didn’t even get the kid new clothes. Negligence wasn’t a pretty thing. Hank liked to think he had been a good par—

 _Stop_. Right. Fucking fake. Not goddamn real.

 _Jesus Christ_. Where was the world going when machines had gotten so real they began fucking around with _his_ emotions?

Hank closed the door handle harder than necessary, then furrowed his brow at Connor, who still stood idly at the door. “What are you waiting for? Get in— click it or ticket. _Jesus_.” Reed was _definitely_ fucking with him. Hank rolled his eyes and blasted the radio. Drums, heavy bass, and dark, spitting lyrics overtook his conscious mind.

Drown it out. Drown the whole damn world _out_.

* * *

 

The CyberLife employee (naturally, another _fucking_ android) was perfectly polite in its refusal to Hank, its plasticine features stiffly fixed into a smile as it explained how _a prototype such as the RK800 is unavailable for returns. You were selected as a beta tester, CyberLife inc. apologizes for any inconvenience caused by this._

Maybe that’s what really pissed Hank off— nothing about the damned bot’s manner _should_ have insulted him. It had been perfect in its imitation of human apology, the perfect picture of gracious refusal. It was too fucking _perfect_. They always did seem perfect, until he really fucking needed them. _Until his hands were coated in blood, his head was pounding, screaming—_

Hank steadied his hand on the counter and recentered himself with mentally burning a hole into the plastic clerk’s forehead. At the very least, a normal department store employee would’ve at least become a _bit_ flustered at the sight of him storming in. The wall of nonchalance he was faced with was just frankly depressing.

Hank looked at the employee, who almost seemed confused as to why he stayed put. “Are you sure there’s no . . . recycle shit? Like, you know, _reduce, reuse, recycle_?” The android stared back, unresponsive. The conversation, apparently, was over.

“Fucking hell— it’s like getting hung up on by tech support. Fuck this, let’s go.” At least _one_ android listened to him. Sometimes.

But since whatever fuck was up above hadn’t thought yesterday was enough, Hank’s eyes locked onto the quickly gathering crowd down the street— anti-android protesters, conveniently near the entrance of the parking lot nearest to CyberLife. Aka, Hank’s blessed escape route to dogs and alcohol (at this point: fuck heading to the station. Fuck heading anywhere if it wasn’t the couch or Jimmy’s). They held the usual disgruntled expressions of idiots who had no fucking better way to spend their mornings other than by bothering _him_.

He walked past, projecting his finest forms of _fuck you_ and _fuck off_ to all who surrounded him. The protesters easily ignored him, a scowling old man— _no way was_ he _an android_. But Connor— _god, that_ fucking _light_. Hank slowed slightly as he heard the jeers grow louder.

“Fucking baby-bot lost your way?”

“ _Hey_ , answer us? You gonna fucking grow up and take our jobs too?”

“You _look_ human,” one rougher looking protester, strolled over to Connor, who still hadn’t seemed to notice the possible risk. Hank eyed the man’s right hand, tucked away in his coat (Connor had the obliviousness of a child. Really, CyberLife fucked up a lot). “Let’s see what color is under all that _rubber_.”

Instinct moved Hank when he saw the shine of the switchblade. He pushed Connor behind him, “okay, put that shit _away_. Detroit Police— back the fuck off or you’ll find your asses in a cell block for disruption of the fucking peace and threats.” He thrust out his badge, wielding it as if it were some majestic, decapitated head covered in snakes (still had that hangover charm).

The man paled slightly but then thinly sneered, almost maniacally at him. “You fucking supporting these pieces of junk? Wait until they get your job! _Wait until they take everything from you._ ”

Hank smiled placidly. “you have one more chance to kindly fuck off before I start getting more pissed off.” The knife disappeared. “Keep your hands where I can fucking see them,” Hank barked out, stepping away slowly. _Androids are making everyone go batshit._ It was way too fucking early for this shit.

After they’d made it a reasonable distance away, Hank’s internal monologue was able to resume its regular schedule of _what the fuck??_ , etc. His head started to ache behind his temples and he was  _really_ starting to regret last night. Fuck that— he was basically regretting all of yesterday.

As his poor heart recovered, Hank noticed Connor becoming seemingly enraptured by a . . . _butterfly?_ Was that even a thing for androids? (Added to the list of characteristics CyberLife got eerily right: complete fucking lack of an attention span.)

Connor was staring at the pale, yellow wings as they fluttered past him, with a look of intense focus. The LED etched upon his skull switched to a similar shade of yellow. His hand twitched slightly and he looked surprised to see it rising.

A dry grin quirked slightly on Hank’s lips. It was such a _human_ look for a machine with professed “infinite intelligence” — strange how the most alive feeling could simply be confusion. The smile drained away as a wave of exhaustion washed over him.

_Tired._

There was an inexpressible sense of emptiness when Hank thought about how _he_ would never be able to chase after butterflies or any bugs (though _he_ always had proudly proclaimed that beetles were his favorite). It was like a gnawing hunger, a wish ( _prayer_ ) that things could be different.

The first time Hank had felt the ache was a few days after the initial ‘world falling apart’ sensation— as if life couldn’t get any more fucked. He wasn’t quite sure how, but one moment he’d been fine (fine as he could be, considering—) and then the clock had smoothly clicked to 2:05 pm _and it felt as if the world was crashing, crashing, crashing again and again._ His early afternoon had always filled a schedule after _he’d_ been enrolled into preschool. Every day, Hank would leave the house, just a bit early, to guarantee he’d be able to wait for _him_ to come out— all smiles and new tales. _His_ son. _His_ beautiful boy. Every day for the first six years of when Hank had finally felt _alive_.

After that day, he’d quickly learned to keep his afternoons as busy as he fucking could. Frequenting Jimmy’s became second nature, as habitual as the poison slowly taking up more and more of his veins as he tried to ignore the cold burn that whispered _how fast_ he could make it all go away. _Too fucking scared. What a goddamn pussy_ — and so, death by a thousand paper cuts it was. No one could judge if Hank’s paper just happened to be scotch whiskey.

“Lieutenant, are you alright? You seem to have an increase of cortisol in your system.” Connor’s voice was soft as if he could sense how Hank was far away.

He startled slightly and stiffly continued his way to the car. “Shouldn’t be wasting your sensors or me. Butterflies and all.” Hank murmured, barely intelligible.

“Pardon?”

“Get in the fucking car— I don’t need to pay for shitty repair services if you get beaten up by the mob.”

A smaller smile graced Connor’s face as he buckled in his seatbelt. He observed Hank, silent for once, with an attentiveness eerily similar to a puppy. _Jesus_.

“The hell you looking at?” Hank gruffly bit out. Strangely enough, the ache seemed to subside. Just the slightest.

(Connor noted an 18% decrease in irritation.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- Headcanon that Hank constantly just cites random, old law enforcement sayings, just as a way of remembering “oldie” times  
> \- Connor still has many of the capabilities from his canon counterpart for reasons ;) not just AU “just cos”  
> \- I also visualize kid!connor as still being very much the same as his adult counterpart in thought processes because it's only his outward mannerisms that have really changed, he's still a superintelligent AI :)  
> \- Note that Hank mentally refers to Connor as a he whenever he subconsciously sees him as more human  
> \- Since this is earlier in the timeline, not only is Hank still very much in the stage of grief, but he’s yet to fully blame androids. Right now, he’s still just trying to process the loss  
> \- Kinda wish the Red Ice investigation had occurred after Cole’s passing— while Hank’s focus as an officer drastically decreased, it would’ve been an incredible motivator. Instead, in the canon timeline, it just seems like a cruel irony
> 
> Have some plans for where I'm going with this and I'm Excited - thanks for reading!


	2. The Mission

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Connor adapts to being one of the family! (or something)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Slight rant, Ao3 _kills_ italics in that it adds spaces around the words and stuff - I try to fix it in editing but it's a constant pain :/  
>  That said, sorry for any formatting issues/ gross spaces, hope you enjoy the chapter!

The lieutenant _perplexed_ Connor. And even in his relatively short run time of 12 days, 5 hours, 39 minutes, and 09 seconds, he was fairly sure this was an occurrence that was not supposed to happen.

It was for this reason he dedicated several processors to the paradox that was Lt. Hank Anderson. The man was . . . with no kinder way to put it— an utter slob. His home was untidy, his outfits slightly wrinkled, and traces of mold crept up even in the bathroom. Connor had tried his best with the few cleaning supplies the lieutenant owned, but some of the grime refused to submit to the strength of his automatized scrubbing.

And despite all of that, the man had _scowled_ at Connor for his attempts, irrationally defensive of his home. Furthermore, for a man who claimed to uphold the law, his “leisurely activities” suggested a definite _flexibility_ to the man’s morality meter.  

Not to mention, the _dog_. Connor’s micro-analyzers still weren’t sure of what to make of the unusually high production of oxytocin triggered in his brain after his first contact with the canine. It had almost been . . . calming, ignoring the fact that androids were relatively immune to feeling such as stress and anxiety, thus making any form of “relaxation” redundant.

Still, there was a sort of voice that affirmed, _I like dogs._

But . . . dogs were irrelevant to the mission. To the program. Connor honestly wasn’t quite sure what his mission _was_. While he was unaware of the startup process of other androids, his had felt surprisingly organic— there was no blaring text informing him of his duties, or even a prerecorded message from CyberLife, other than the fact he simply knew he was an android prototype sent by them. He just _was_.

It was infuriatingly irrational and rather nonlinear method of designing a prototype. How could he fulfill a mission he had no idea existed? Perhaps CyberLife intended to inform him of his mission during one of the scheduled, monthly data syncs; or perhaps, irrationally, they had left it up to him to define the parameters of his mission (a false plan. Androids had no self-ingenuity).

Occasionally he would gain directives from the lieutenant, but he found an odd sort of flexibility to them. Perhaps they were simply as ambiguous as their maker, but in instances when the lieutenant told Connor to do something, he almost found a sense of _joy_ in pushing the lieutenant’s words, seeing how it would influence the man (androids could not feel joy. He _knew_ this. He also knew that the lieutenant had no grounds to judge him on for disobedience— his transcript had said plenty.)

So when the lieutenant pulled over by a burger truck, affectionately the Chicken Feed, and explicitly told Connor, “stay the fuck inside” as the door slammed shut, his LED whirred a thoughtful yellow. No useful additional data would be observed from the car window— Connor followed the lieutenant’s tracks out of the car 5.6 seconds after him.

The lieutenant scowled at him, though Connor’s scanners identified the irritated, furrowed brows had softened into just confused (compared to the previous ‘seriously fucking pissed’).

“Jesus, you’re like a real fucking kid— never listening to what’s told to them.” He turned to the owner of the truck, “yeah, thanks, Gary.”

“Hey, don’t leave that thing here,” the man in the greasy uniform (a brief scan affirmed, yes, this was Gary) eyed Connor warily.

The lieutenant rolled his eyes, hands too occupied with a hamburger (1680 calories) and an extra large soda (710 calories) to make any gratuitous hand gestures. Noted— _lacks care for diet_. "Don’t worry about it— it won’t leave me alone.”

Connor’s LED returned to blue as he thought on the lieutenant’s comment— of course, that was the logical explanation for the seemingly irrational compulsions that protested against his software. CyberLife has designed him to be the perfect imitation of a human child— of course, the disobedience and playfulness that constituted a child's learning and growth phase had been placed within his program.

And that, too, alluded to his overall mission— to become the most lifelike child to allow for the further development of CyberLife’s programs. Yes, he nodded to himself, satisfied— that was his purpose. That, and perhaps ensuring the lieutenant didn’t kill himself with a stroke from cholesterol levels or even . . . less savory methods. Connor noticed the empty stares, the almost automatic reach for a glass. _Maybe_ — maybe he could assist that too. After all, what was a prototype without a beta tester? Connor acknowledged his program had limits in its observations.

Because despite the man’s quite rude introduction, having him abruptly gone would be . . . unpleasant ( _an inconvenience for CyberLife_ , Connor internally corrected).

Considering his shorter stature, Connor found it difficult to see the lieutenant’s expression as he sidled up beside the gruff man. From his observations thus far, he found the lieutenant rather uncooperative and couldn’t imagine how he had even ended up in CyberLife’s final pool of beta testers, much less become the sole person to receive an RK800.

Alongside that, one thing in particular had perplexed Connor unendingly.

“Lieutenant, can I ask a personal question?” he abruptly spoke, almost surprising himself. Of course, it was a ‘want’ to improve his understanding of his current environment that led him to ask.

The lieutenant glanced down at him, tension fading now that his overly saturated meal was in the process of being consumed. There was already a slight sheen of grease on the man’s beard. He shrugged and waved his free hand brusquely, “shoot.”

“Back in the parking lot, your reaction . . . I was under the impression you found androids unpleasant?”

He swallowed, brow starting to furrow again, “Jesus, what did I say about not sounding like a professor?”

Connor resisted the irrational urge to frown at the deflection. He pressed on, “there must’ve been a reason. My warranty covers any repairs within the first year, interfering was unnecessary.” His mind near-instantaneously supplied the visual of the man’s cup from the morning, “and it’s not as if you pretend to like androids.”

A silent scowl was the only response he received as the lieutenant defiantly finished his meal whilst both parties were critically aware of the other. His expression softened slightly as his gaze seemed to fix upon a point on the snowy horizon.

“Connor, is it not enough to say it just wouldn’t have felt great to see a kid get cut?” He said softly, gruffly, as if hesitant of the truth in his statement. _A kid_.

Connor felt a jolt as if a mild electrical current had been embedded in the lieutenant’s words. “Lieutenant, I believe you misunderstand our positions. I-“ he cut himself off, the words _I am a machine_ dying on his lips. Wasn’t it good if the lieutenant showed signs of considering him in a paternal and humane light? He was fulfilling his mission— _his mission did not mean_ he _was not a machine._

It was a simulation—entirely on the lieutenant’s side.

He flashed one of the CyberLife-guaranteed-to-work smiles at the lieutenant’s confused face. “Sorry, thank you for explaining it to me, Lieutenant.”

The lieutenant gave a half-nod and a tight smile— Connor’s scanners placed him on the bullshit spectrum as _not taking it_.

 _Not that it mattered_ , Connor concluded— his analytics placed an 87% likelihood that tonight would replicate the prior in alcohol consumption. In the lieutenant’s drunken sleep, it would be unlikely that he would recall this instance.

The rest of the morning was spent in tepid silence and overly blasting heavy metal as they drove back to the lieutenant’s residence. He noted the lieutenant’s infrequent, but heavy, stares as if the man was trying to activate a human form of scanning. A futile measure when compared to Connor’s numerous processors.

His social protocol determined that bothering the lieutenant would likely only increase his tension— he would relax once he returned home (to the oxytocin-inducing Sumo). But for _him_ , he was indifferent to the lieutenant’s responses. Machines weren’t made to be tense, and Connor was a good machine. All he was doing was collecting information and then adapting. A self-teaching machine. A _good_ machine.

* * *

 

The lieutenant spent the rest of the day in what Connor imagined to be surprisingly productive for him— he’d washed up a quarter of the dishes in the sink, shoved some boxes to the side, and had even left to take the Saint Bernard for a walk (an action that was rather odd considering the 60% chance of light snowfall).

Before he’d left, he had stared at the android for a moment, as if contemplating asking him something (Connor’s social prediction microprocessors had deduced a high probability of, considering the colloquialisms typically used by the lieutenant, that he would say something along the lines of ‘you could use some air’, to which he planned a response around ‘I do not require oxygen, Lieutenant’). However, nothing came and Connor was left alone, standing in the place he’d situated himself in for the past two hours as the door slammed shut heavily.

His fans whirred as he finally moved from his position. The lieutenant had seemed to be in a particularly bad mood at Connor since his question (though he _had_ said it was alright for Connor to ask a personal question), thus examining the residence had seemed inappropriate while the man was attempting to clean. It hadn’t been much, but the android wasn’t one to halt progress.

He scanned the living room as he slowly paced around. It had been difficult to determine the status of the house the first night he had arrived, too busy calibrating his settings and limited by the clutter and lighting (not that his few attempts to clean had done any lasting damage to the overall hazard that was the lieutenant’s cabinets). However, he was nothing if not adaptive— Connor stepped over a half used bag of dog food (he scanned the barcode. Purchased two weeks and four days ago).

He noted several stacks of books, real, paper books, lying around the home. Connor was programmed to be efficient— he _could_ scan and read a paper book, however it would take at least a few milliseconds longer. And yet, his processors lingered over the books— perplexed. There was something _more_ to the bound paper. There seemed to be a sort of worn reverence in the way the lieutenant had physically touched and _read_ each page. It had taken _time_ (strangely enough, his processors didn’t correlate the term ‘waste’ to the books).

As he walked around, Connor rationalized to himself, if he was able to understand the lieutenant’s house better, perhaps it would offer a further explanation for his perplexing actions. Certainly, if the man’s thoughts were as jumbled as his house, the irrationality of his decisions would seem slightly more comprehensible.

Connor strode into the bathroom, observing the tiles, small clumps of dust collecting in the corners. The mirror was dirty, multi-colored sticky notes with various reminders and quips scribbled surprisingly legibly (considering the lieutenant). Like many of the lieutenant’s other possessions, he seemed to be drawn to the outdated— Connor had spotted only one emagazine.

After analyzing the wall of the lieutenant’s shower (a concerning concentration of mold was found) and ordering a specialized order of cleaning supplies, he made his way to the room at the end of the hall. Knowing of no other rooms besides the ones already traveled in, deduction led to that this was the lieutenant’s bedroom. Rather unhelpfully, Connor’s sensors commented that the room smelled strongly of the lieutenant’s musk (as well as slight traces of whiskey).

The bed was woefully made, sheets haphazardly tossed onto the bed. Connor made his way past the partially shut closet and his eyes zeroed on an unnatural silhouette on the bedside table. A quick scan identified the forms as a magnum revolver and an overturned picture frame. The silver edges of the frame were well-worn. Used, probably more than the books.

His eyes automatically noted the wear on the pistol’s safety and trigger, a brief search online curiously informing him that the gun wasn’t DPD-distributed ( _purpose: sentiment?_ ).

Connor blinked, suddenly very aware of a sensation of _unpleasantness_ in his circuits. He repeated the mantra that androids didn’t feel discomfort. _Discomfort_ was simply a milder form of pain, which androids _can’t feel_. The most he could feel was a synthesized form of _wrongness_ when the directive was compromised.

He glanced at the hallway, listening for the sound of the lieutenant returning. It wouldn’t do to be seen inside the room— there was a 79% likelihood _he_ would find it discomforting.

He avoided looking back at the table (it felt _wrong_ ). It wasn’t a part of the mission.

* * *

 

Connor’s internal clock clicked to 18:00 and he wondered when exactly the lieutenant planned on eating dinner. Judging from the meager contents of his fridge, Connor determined there was a 86% chance that what the lieutenant consumed would be somewhere within the category of ‘microwavable- add water’.

Such a lack of nutritional value in the lieutenant's diet was . . . concerning. Connor had already ordered a full list of groceries that would be delivered the next morning, but tonight was still in consideration. Connor cautiously looked at Sumo, wary of setting off the still slightly-damp Saint Bernard. He blinked blearily at Connor and then snorted into his paws, laying his massive head back down by his food bowl (filled, courtesy of the lieutenant. Connor suspected the closest the man got to self-care was with his dog).

The lieutenant walked into the kitchen, recently showered and changed into casual shorts and a faded DPD shirt. He shot a vexed look at Connor, “you gonna just _stand_ there the whole night?”

He considered his actions as the lieutenant pulled out a package of easy-make lasagna. “That is something I could do— I do have several set-up procedures and programs I would like to organize. I also believe it would help you if I downloaded some programs from online on meals I could prepare for you. Are there any meals you like?”

The lieutenant rolled his eyes, “haven’t even been fucking stuck with you for a day and you’re already planning on taking over my goddamn house.” He pulled the steaming lasagna out, wincing slightly at the overheated plastic edges. Connor determined a comment on how he could’ve handled the dish painlessly would be unappreciated— as observed with the books, the man seemed to appreciate his inconveniences.

The grizzled man himself pulled at chair a the dining table and began eating. He eyed Connor and stabbed his fork in the android’s direction, “Jesus— sit down, will you? It’s fucking bad enough having an android, it’s creepy as hell having a mannequin watch you eat.”

Connor determined that the lieutenant most likely felt a power imbalance when he was in a state of vulnerability (seated, eating) while he himself was standing. A sense of unease would inhibit the development of their relationship and his mission— he sat.

He began scanning the lieutenant as he ate, hoping his micro-analyzers would offer insight to the shifting of the lieutenant’s demeanor. Surprisingly, the lieutenant caught on. “Fuck, can’t I get a break? Cut that shit out.”

Connor blinked, chastened,  “how could you tell what I was doing?” His position was exactly how he had sat before.

“I didn’t notice before, but you do a weird, fucking staring thing,” the lieutenant scowled as Connor’s LED flickered to yellow. “Hey, don’t change your fucking settings— just don’t do your weird scan shit, alright?”

His scanner lock abruptly snapped off the lieutenant— even if he could justify it as the mission, a direct order was an order. A subdirectory of the mission. Absolute.

“Oh, _Jesus_ , I didn’t mean you have to stare at your fucking toes the whole night. Just— do something that’s not fucking messing with my shit. Read a book,” the lieutenant gestured at his shelves.

Connor nodded, a human signal that conveyed understanding. Orders, he could do. They were clean, crisp lines that helped him stay on the mission. Within orders, there were no magnum revolvers and sticky notes— just a machine (there was no need to _hope_ or _wish_ for understanding when he was simply _told_ ).

Absentmindedly, he fingered a coin he’d unconsciously picked up to examine from the table. The sensors on his fingertips identified it as a quarter— minted in 1994. Although it did have a monetary value, Connor’s processors placed the possibility as _unlikely_ that an object as unsentimental as currency would be considered the lieutenant’s “shit”. He tossed the coin and caught it, tails up, on the pad of his left hand’s ring finger— _useful for calibration_.

The lieutenant finished his meal and glanced at Connor, fiddling with the coin. A strangled sort of wheeze came out of the man, “so, even droids get bored?”

“Not possible, I am using this coin as a reflex calibrator for my fingers. Either way, I am always busy, working on improving my systems.”

“‘ _Not possible_ ’ my ass,” the lieutenant walked over to the cabinet and pulled out scotch whiskey. He shrugged wearily, “ah, whatever, have fun with your coin.” He called Sumo to him and they both fell onto the couch with practiced ease as the lieutenant turned on the television.

Connor observed the lieutenant for a few more moments and, satisfied the man would be fine on his own for the next hour, he stood and adjusted his uniform. A simple outfit of dark greys, contrasted by the glowing blue of the CyberLife insignia. His brow furrowed— the uniform was fine for a formal setting, it clearly stated what he was, and it wasn’t as if he required “comfortable” clothing.

But the lieutenant was not a man of formality. Considering his dislike of androids, Connor calculated the possibility of the uniform inhibiting his progress. And without knowing the root of the lieutenant’s disgust, making an accurate prediction was difficult (his public files had only stated so much: education, police training, his long list of demerits).

_Connor, is it not enough to say it just wouldn’t have felt great to see a kid get cut?_

That had been the first instance that the lieutenant had referred to him by name. Despite the uniform, he had, for a moment, considered Connor with a sense of familiarity (his LED turned yellow as he contemplated the new information).

Initially, Connor’s social protocol had proceeded with the impression that most humans found displeasure in discussing intimate subjects, especially within the early hours of meeting another person. But perhaps, it would serve his mission to go for a more direct approach. _The lieutenant does not want to see an android, he wishes to see a child_. _A child is curious._

* * *

 

 _20:04._ Connor pocketed the coin and looked towards the lieutenant. Approximately 1.3 hours had passed since he had sat down. He walked cautiously towards the lieutenant, unsure how he would react to a shadowy figure in his peripherals. The man, however, didn’t stir and Connor slowly reached for the remote, shutting off the harsh lighting of the television. It had long stopped playing the game.

The lieutenant himself was lying haphazardly, neck craned at an angle onto the couch arm. One hand was loosely wrapped around a glass and the other was tangled in Sumo’s fur. Sumo shifted slightly in the new dark and then placed his head back on the lieutenant’s leg protectively. Connor gently released the lieutenant’s fingers from the glass and placed it on a wayward coaster— _glass hazard averted_.

As he stared at Sumo, a human colloquialism slipped unbidden from his audio processors. “Good dog.”

He blinked, yellow LED illuminating the shine in Sumo’s eyes. The Saint Bernard drooled cheerfully and sneezed before drifting back to sleep. He mulled over the words for a moment longer. _Good dog_ (a speech adaptation in his system. Normal. To be expected) _._

Considering the combined weight of the lieutenant and canine, he determined he would be unable to move them effectively or with ease.

He checked his directives and found all were either suspended with the unconsciousness of the lieutenant or competed. He frowned— to not be able to do anything, to be _unproductive_ was . . . a _waste_. Certainly, he could attempt to clean, but there was the possibility of another incident like the morning if he attempted the kitchen utensils again. He doubted the lieutenant would take kindly to a second drunken sleep being awoken in such a manner.

He walked over to the shelf with books— perhaps further research on the lieutenant could be conducted in this manner (he checked his monitors, _relationship status_ : _need more data_ ). At the very least, this action had been sanctioned by the lieutenant, so little conflict would derive from him being found reading.

His fingers drifted over the spines, adjusting his visual input with his tactile sensors to read the titles. He paused over one. Did humans normally write about years? Histories did not seem like something the lieutenant would read leisurely.

He searched up _1984_ in CyberLife’s libraries. _Orwell, George_. He scanned through a brief summary. Not quite the sort of book he had hypothesized the lieutenant to read. And yet the book, with no other way to describe it, stirred up a sense of intrigue in himself. There was no such thing as “interest” when concerning androids— a thing with no emotions cannot ‘want’. But they were made to accomplish tasks, solve problems. Connor absentmindedly traced over the embossed letters, frowning slightly. _Not curious, simply solving a problem_.

He opened the book, surprised by the distinct crackle and sensation of paper sliding against paper. It was so much _sharper_ than the smooth slide of a tablet. His LED whirred to yellow as he considered the benefits of reading the book in a traditional manner. Perhaps purposefully dedicating time to such a task would explain the lieutenant’s attraction to the old?

He adjusted his light input to comfortably see the text in the dark living room. Focusing on the small, worn-down text, he hardly noticed the soft glow of red in the room. _It was a bright cold day in April, and the clocks were striking thirteen . . . ._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now being beta'd by the amazing Kyu! They help a lot :)


	3. Speramus Meliora; Resurget Cineribus

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A day in the life of Lt. Anderson is usually boring. He misses the boring.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay :,) summer's over, so now it's time for super-long-waits. Thank you for all the support however :))
> 
> Detroit's motto is Speramus Meliora; Resurget Cineribus, " We hope for better things; it shall arise from the ashes.” This chapter is dedicated to Hank- may he receive better things soon :,)

Hank awoke with the weight of a 170-pound dog pressing down on him. As he groaned and squinted his eyes open, he saw (rather, more _felt_ ), Sumo move off the couch. The Saint Bernard padded towards his food bowl and Hank blissfully prayed the android had done _something_ useful.

But instead, Connor was just _standing_ there. Hank stared at the android, rubbing his eyes. _What is it fucking doing?_

“Hey, Connor. You okay there?” He attempted standing and immediately a wave of dizziness prompted him to fall back down again. “ _Fuck_ . . . .”

The android’s head uncannily snapped to watching Hank, an unreadable expression on its face. “I’ve placed a glass of water and painkillers next to you.”

Hank tried focusing on anywhere but the ground and blindly groped for said water (looking _down_ just made him feel like he was about to hurl. He really had to get better at getting shitfaced). He tried focusing on the calming blue LED on the kid’s temple.

“So,” he swirled the water around his mouth to wash out of the day-old flavor of whiskey, “have you just been, uhh, fucking . . . standing there all night?” Any eloquence he had was obliterated in the face of the pulsating drill behind his eyes.

Connor cocked his head to the side, “I’m unsure what you mean, lieutenant. I just told you I went into the bathroom to—”

“ _Alright, alright_. Thank you,” Hank impatiently waved the monologue aside. He hauled himself up and mused over the kitchen. He doubted he could get away with another unexcused absence from the police station (because no way in hell was he explaining to Jeffery that he needed the android variant of _maternity leave_ ).

He felt the android walk up to him. “Sorry, lieutenant, I was planning on preparing a breakfast for you—”

Hank opened the fridge, revealing surprisingly stocked shelves. Except, he would _never_ fucking purchase all this green shit. “Okay— what the _fuck_ is this?”

“I- sorry, lieutenant. I had noticed your refrigerator was lacking, so I took the liberty of buying more food. I had hoped you wouldn’t mind.” Connor’s LED briefly turning to yellow for a millisecond was eerily similar to the mannerisms of a guilty child avoiding eye contact after stealing candy. _And fuck . . . that stutter_. It just looked so _real_ — Hank couldn’t get pissed (not to mention, his slightly fading headache was making it real damn hard to focus on anything).

His gaze wearily drifted and he noticed it was still holding an object. Sensing Hank’s gaze, Connor placed it down hurriedly, “sorry.”

Hank smiled joylessly, “don’t fucking worry about it. You haven’t had much care for what I felt about you touching all my other shit anyway, why start now? _Mi casa es su casa_.”

Connor blinked, almost chastened (if androids could even feel that). He fiddled idly with the coin that he had apparently kept, “I’m sorry about that, lieutenant. I hadn’t realized how important privacy was to you. If you didn’t know that I was to be sent to you, I understand how this situation could be distressing. However I will do my best to rectify this and change myself—”

“Oh Jesus,” Hank cut him off. “Now you’re fucking talking about changing yourself—  _fuck_ , let me get used to you as is.”

Connor looked decidedly scandalized at the thought of not being able to “improve” himself. _Christ,_  was that all androids ever thought of? Didn’t they ever have their own thoughts? Wants to do their own shit? Was the cheeky asshole making Hank’s life a living hell not even a real personality?

Meanwhile, the android was starting to look downright depressed at having nothing to do.

“Okay, if it’ll cheer your sorry ass up, you can make some breakfast,” Hank huffed, nursing his water. If it wasn’t for that fact he was already going to have to endure going to the station, he would’ve probably broken out more Black Lamb.

Connor perked up immediately, moving to the fridge. “I was running a background process throughout the night to determine the optimal breakfast that you might enjoy, considering the meal preferences I know of. Do eggs and hash browns sound acceptable?”

“Knock yourself out,” Hank absentmindedly replied, focusing on the book. _1984_ boldly stared back up at him, stirring up memories of younger years spent with a far more active imagination. Not really the type of book he’d have expected an android to pick up (he _did_ distantly recall suggesting it read something).

As if sensing his gaze, Connor spoke up whilst perfectly cracking an egg into a bowl. “I quite enjoyed the book. What drew you to purchasing it, lieutenant?”

Hank thumbed through the pages a bit, “I dunno. Why do people do anything?” Realizing the android seemed decidedly unsatisfied with his answer, he tried again. “When I was younger, it was considered a classic, so I tried it out. It was alright. Kinda crazy with today. . . .” He mumbled the last part to himself.

“Why would you say that?” Connor, naturally, heard everything. Simultaneously, he turned on the burner and began melting a perfect cube of butter onto a pan. The pre-made hash browns were generously heaped on a plate and sent into the microwave.

Hank was content with watching the android fluidly move throughout the kitchen, staying silent for a few moments longer. He really didn’t want to talk philosophy with a bot at, _shiit_ , ten o’clock?

Surprisingly, Connor was the one to break the white noise of the eggs sizzling on the stove. “Based on the knowledge I’m preprogrammed with about certain novels, I found I quite enjoyed Orwell’s writing. The thought he put into the possible technology was . . . intriguing, especially considering the time frame the book was written in. I can understand if that is what you meant by comparing the book with the contemporary immersion with technology.”

In a way, Connor had hit the nail on the head— not much seemed to have changed. Big Brother, CyberLife, the comparison was undeniable. _Have the world wrapped around their fucking finger_ , Hank mused.

“Damn, didn’t know that CyberLife built in all this meta shit when they made you. Thought you were just a kid, you’re supposed to do this?” Hank grimly joked, sighing as he smelled the eggs cook. Fuck, real food was starting to seem a lot more appealing than before.

Connor didn’t do the android equivalent of laughter ( _rude_ , Hank thought he’d been fucking hilarious), instead, freezing in place. Hank quirked his brow and leaned over, noticing the indicator on it was dangerously hovering between yellow and red. Hank wasn’t a tech guy, but he was pretty sure that was supposed to be  _bad_.

The microwave began to beep. No one moved.

“In that . . . in that book,” Connor spoke softly, hesitantly correcting himself, “there was a lot of discussion about . . . will. _Free_ will.”

The microwave chirped one last time and not even the inviting scent of hash browns could ease the tension in the android’s shoulders.

Hank’s eyes moved from the microwave to the kid. He’d heard of androids malfunctioning, and Connor _had_ said he was a prototype. The grizzled man could almost feel the gears clicking and grinding in the kid’s head. He wasn’t _breaking_ , he was thinking.

This, _this_ didn’t seem like malfunctioning— it was more than that. This felt like something _waking up_.

 _Maybe they’re not all just fake and plastic_.

“But in the end, the humans succumbed. _They had no free will_. Lieutenant,” Connor turned around fully, a strange sort of longing to _understand_ in his brown eyes. “Do you think you have free will?”

_What. The. Fuck._

Normally, Hank was used to practical questions from the android, especially as it attempted to fix the mess that was his house— _why is there mold in the bathroom, where is the vacuum, how much time do you spend grooming Sumo_ — but _this_ was his own question. This went beyond just ‘can I ask a personal question?’. This was the damn machine’s own thinking about something probably irrelevant to how it was programmed. From his stuttering, it seemed Connor was partially aware of it as well. Did _he_ have free will?

Somehow, the thought didn’t freak Hank out as much as it probably should’ve.

A distinct smell of not-eggs hit Hank’s nose and Connor’s LED flashed red.

He whipped around, “sorry, lieutenant. It appears I have burned your eggs.” He hurriedly turned off the burner and scraped the eggs next to the heated-up hash browns.

Hank rubbed his eyes tiredly, “it’s fine.” Hungover philosophy sessions were exhausting. He glanced at the plate presented to him, still far more edible than anything he had made in the past year. He took a bite. _Not bad_.

Connor still looked perturbed as he sat down beside him.

“Jesus, you don’t have to be that upset over some eggs.” Hank wasn’t even sure if he’d intended the comment as a joke or jibe— the kid just looked so forlorn and _lost_ (with all the processing power androids bragged to have, he wondered if there was even any use to try to distract them).

The android glanced up, half-heartedly acknowledging Hank.

Hank took another bite of eggs. “Fourth lesson of life,” he swallowed, “sometimes, we all don’t know what the fuck we’re doing, free will be damned. You’ve just gotta keep going.”

“But, lieutenant, my mission—”

 _A mission_. Encompassing a _child’s_ entire self as just a _mission_ — were all the “kid androids” Hank saw like this? The thought made the ache twist and convulse and do something other than just _ache_. It made him feel _angry_. It was all just more of motherfucking CyberLife thinking they could create a life that was _better_ than life.

 _A goddamn mission_ — “Is fucking what? You’re built to be a kid— _fucking be a kid if you want to_. Kids shouldn’t be stressing about all sorts of shit that you don’t need to be stressing about yet. Just, try to enjoy your life, alright?” Hank breathed heavily, trying to ignore the headache threatening to return.

Connor stared blankly back at him, a slight furrow in his brow the only sign he’d heard the admonishment.

 _Fuck_ — Hank got caught up in emotion and forgot the reality of the situation. _CyberLife creates a super-intelligent machine and even it doesn’t know what to do at some times_ , he thought wryly. Just like a real fucking person.

When it became clear the conversation was over (Connor evidently still trying to wrap his mechanical brain around whatever the fuck Hank had just ranted— maybe he was compiling a bible), Hank stood up with his plate and washes it off in the sink.

Heading to his room to change into something more presentable, he paused for a moment, looking back at the kid. He was still seated, hands folded neatly in his lap as his LED pulsed at a steady yellow. Hank resisted the urge to ask _are you okay?_ Sometimes, the best machines were only that— a machine (he distantly wondered if CyberLife would accept the android back if they knew it was broken).

“What are you gonna be doing today?” He bit out instead.

Connor’s head lifted, blue LED returning for a moment. “I- I’m not sure.”

Hank hesitated at the hallway, gripping the wall for support. _Fuck_ , he didn't remember it being this hard. “If you want to, I wouldn’t say no to the bathroom being cleaned up a bit. Try not to fuck up the sticky notes.”

He didn’t particularly like the feeling of giving a machine (not to mention, when it looked like a child) orders, especially when it seemed it couldn’t refuse when directly told, but . . . _baby steps_. Connor had gotten overwhelmed when presented with completely open options, but at least it was trying. _Maybe it wasn’t completely fucking hopeless_. Hank could work with that.

The smile Connor gave wasn’t quite the hundred-watt grin from before, but it felt more genuine. It was small, a bit sad if Hank squinted, but it was _something_ . It made the voice in his head whispering _fake_ and the ache in his chest fade, just a bit.

(He didn't remember parenting being this hard.)

* * *

 

_Do you think you have free will?_

There was a foul sort of feeling in Hank’s gut at the implication in Connor’s voice that had seemed to have eliminated any question that _he_ could have free will. Because he was just a “machine”, right? That’s what they both seemed to have been telling themselves. But the stutters, the mess up with the food, the weird ass nervous ticks that Connor sometimes showed— it was all so  _human_.

And, it was all so fucking irrelevant to his job. Hank scowled as he roughly pulled into his parking spot— time to face the goddamn music that was Jeffrey Fowler.

The warm welcome of “Hank! In my office” greeted him as he stepped through the side-door into the main DPD office area. He sighed, _no fucking time to even get some coffee_.

Fowler smiled grimly at him as he sat down. “I’m not going to ask questions about where you were literally _all_ of yesterday, though I heard you even ditched Jimmy’s.” Hank hadn’t been sure it was possible, but the disappointment on the man’s face seemed to thicken even more. It was a bit depressing that he was getting the classic “not mad just disappointed”— as a fucking fifty-three-year-old man he’d think he was a bit beyond that.

Hank huffed as he shifted back in the seat. “Yeah, I was kinda trying to avoid this sort of shitty confrontation.”

“It’s my priority to keep this city safe, and after that, my officers,” the large officer leaned forward, locking eyes with him, “as friends, I’m hoping that you’ve solved whatever it was. As your superior, I’m asking you continue to keep your shit out of the office, got it?”

Hank frowned at him, “Jesus, Jeffery, I’m two hours early compared to usual, I take care of my shit, alright?” The man sat back down, satisfied that that was as much of an assurance as he was going to get out of the lieutenant.

“Good, keep it that way. Now, I’m placing you on a special case— it’s a homicide, but not a typical one.” Fowler turned his screen towards Hank. “I’ve sent the files over to you, but here’s the gist.”

He scanned the briefing and his jaw tensed. Wasn’t there supposed to be an investigative standard that the officer on the case wasn’t supposed to be biased? “For _fuck’s_ sake, I really don’t think I’m qualified to—”

“Hank, you used to be one of our best— I have faith that you still are,” Fowler locked eyes with him. “I know it’s been a tough few months, but I still think you can get back up on your feet and make a difference.”

 _Tough few months_. Tough fucking year. Tough fucking life.

“I’m already on my _feet_ ,” Hank stood up, sarcastically proving his point. “And I don’t need your fucking _special_ cases— just send the usual shit over. You don’t want me dealing with _that_.”

“Hank, _please_ ,” Fowler frowned, gesturing for him to sit. To consider his empty words— that was all anyone offered afterward. Hank felt like how he did _then_ , at the funeral— glued in place, people just talking nonstop to him, expecting _too much_ ( _let them mourn, they’ve suffered too_ , his ex-wife had said. He’d wanted to scream back _what have I suffered?_ But he’d bit the harsh comments back— she had been the only person who could come close in understanding).

Fowler kept trying, “ _remember_ why we joined?”

“Remember why I wanted to fucking quit?” Hank shot back, starting to feel pissed.

“You know I’m as sorry as you are about Cole, he was a good kid, but people _now_ —“

“ _Jesus Christ_ , why can’t everyone just shut the fuck up about my _goddamn dead fucking son_ ?” Hank grit out, his fists slamming dangerously close to Jeffrey’s keyboard. The ache was back, alongside the urge to down something far stronger than DPD second-brand coffee. It didn’t fucking help that the captain didn’t clean his office— _goddamn dust in my eyes_. “Just, take me off the case, will you?”

“I’m sorry, but I can’t.” Bless his fucking soul, Fowler actually looked regretful. “I told you to keep your shit out of the force, Hank. If you can’t accept the case, turn in your badge.”

Ice filled Hank’s veins and he felt The Smile slip onto his face. The _thank you for your condolences_ , all cussing carefully censored, smile. The calm before the shitstorm hit. _Your badge_. The one stable thing in Hank’s already fucked up life— _shit, is he really that serious about this?_ It felt as if there were papery ashes clogging up his windpipe. He took a deep breath, and then another, deeper one, because the first felt like it hadn’t even touched his lungs.

“If you’re set on staying, I recommend you go to your desk now, before either of us say something we’ll regret,” Fowler said, eyeing Hank’s stiff face.

_Cold. The ground had been cold— winter had blown in early that year._

“Hank?”

He blinked and his head snapped up. “I’m fine,” he brusquely shifted away from any gesture of concern Jeffery offered. He swallowed back the automatic words of wisdom ‘ _f_ _uck you’_ and left. It was real fucking hard to be an asshole when his chest felt like a broken ship, swimming in circles and _sinking_.

He loaded up his terminal.

* * *

 

_Retrieved: two (2) files._

_Case file. Date of Offense: 1/16/37. Report Date: 1/17/37._

_Case Reference: Homicide_

_Victim: Canaan Loughlin_

_Reporting Officer: ID#1346 UNIT#250_

_Case Assigned To: Lt. Anderson_

_Case Status: Open_

_Involving Android: Yes_

_Suspects: William Loughlin (father, missing at the scene)_

_The victim was found dead at the scene, partially buried in the backyard of her home. Large indentations were found around the disfigured cranium (the suspected cause of death). In the house interior, a violently deactivated AX400 (female, African American) was found in the kitchen area. There are signs of a struggle._

_Additional Notes:_

_The victim’s parents are divorced (8 years). William Loughlin has yet to be taken into custody for questioning. Valorie Loughlin (mother) has been informed of the case. The android will be sent to CyberLife Inc., which has agreed to cooperate on the_ investigation.

* * *

 

Hank promptly exited the tab, feeling nauseous. He hadn’t even drunk _that_ much last night (subconsciously he was aware that the knots in his gut weren’t because of alcohol). He knew he wouldn’t be good for the case.

Because it was one thing to sympathize, even empathize— he _knew_ the pain the mother was going through— it was to be expected, considering what had happened. But then came the burning, gnawing _anger_. _What sort of messed up cockfuck_ murders _his fucking daughter?_ A smarter, wiser part of Hank distantly acknowledged he was already buried too deep— he was getting worse than biased, _he was getting invested—_

But all he could think of was the _ache_ and the thought of _fuck it_ , everyone already saw him as a run-down fuck of a cop.

Glancing at the address one last time, he radioed in that he was heading to the scene. Forensics had been there for the past couple of hours it seemed, and he swore that they better have done a damn good job because Lieutenant Hank fucking Anderson was heading over.

* * *

 

Hank would recognize that goddamned style of dark brown hair anywhere— the only thing better would be the snarky voice that so often accompanied it.

“The _fuck_ are you doing here, Reed?” he slammed his car door shut, locking it as the man himself turned around.

Reed mimicked tipping a hat, “ah, the elusive _lieutenant_ arrives.” The title sounded mocking, pleading to the voices in Hank’s head that whispered _you don’t deserve it_. “Good afternoon and goodbye— the bar’s _that_ way,” he gestured off into the distance.

Hank rolled his shoulders and scowled, briefly entertaining the fantasy of slamming Reed’s face into the semi-damp ground. Better to just keep matters with Mr. Fuckface Detective business (not to mention, contaminating the crime scene and all that shit). “Alright, where’re the bodies?” He slipped on foot covers and had the sensation Reed was smirking behind his face mask.

And yet, although he was an asshole, Hank grudgingly admitted Reed knew how to walk the grid. He observed the house as he walked in (ignoring Reed’s sarcastic “ladies first”), noting the disuse of the living room. The reports had stated the victim had lived alone with her single father and it showed: dusty blinds were down and one window was even broken, a simple quick fix of duct tape and cardboard the only attention given to it. The house was in a sorrier state than Hank’s.

Stepping gingerly past a counter in the kitchen, Hank walked around the small tiled area, eyes locking onto the crumpled form of the android. Blue blood was drying on her face and the cabinets that hung open had smears across them. _Signs of a struggle_. “Have you contacted the neighbors for witnesses yet?” he asked aloud while snapping on tight-fitting gloves and a face mask.

It had been more of a formality to ask— Hank didn’t think the asshole was _that_ incompetent— yet Reed rolled his eyes as if a vendetta had been announced, “of course I fucking did. Calls went out two hours ago— thanks for that.” The detective looked as if he wanted nothing more than to just sit and be done with everything, but he settled for shifting on his feet impatiently— even he didn’t fuck with crime scenes.

Hank gently tilted the android’s head back, noting the collapse of the metal skull. _Was her head pushed back into the cabinets?_ He placed it back, swallowing a bit uneasily. He hadn’t been on serious homicide cases for a long while, courtesy of Jeffery’s misplaced sympathy. It irked him how goddamn _shaky_ he felt. He nearly heard Connor’s voice in his head— _lieutenant, you’re not focusing on the case._ He blinked out of his reverie, distracting himself by glancing towards Reed’s ugly fuckface ( _ah, normalcy_ his brain supplied).

“Is there a chance of reactivation? Any information we can get out of this thing?” Hank stood up, glancing around the rest of the kitchen.

Reed smirked, “nah, it’s fucked. Forensics said some of the important shit got crushed.” He headed for the door, “you have fun in here. I’m gonna sign out with forensics— remember there’s an actual body when you’re done drooling over the robot.” He gave a smug grin, trying to mask the indignation in his gaze.

Hank waved him off absentmindedly. _Jesus, he’s like a kid getting his toys taken away_. Reed would have a fit if he knew the irony of the fact that Hank didn’t even _want_ the damn case. However, he wasn’t completely suicidal, so he stayed silent, eyes trailing over the dull tint of the deactivated LED.

_Now, onto body no. 2._

Hank walked to the backyard, nodding at one of the forensics technicians. “I’m gonna take a look at the body and then I’ll check in with you guys.”

He kneeled lightly in the damp grass, most of the remaining snow having melted with forensics walking through, scanning over the victim. He concentrated on cynically examining the yard. _It’s just a body._ Not a kid (Hank had seen one too many of those in the ground already). The body had been pulled from the ground by the investigative team for examination, a tarp set up to shield it.

Broad indents on the skull indicated an object was probably used. _Impassioned, but not necessarily hedonic._ The suspect tried to distance themself. It was the real fucking crazy ones that liked to _feel_ them break.

Hank rolled back on the balls of his feet into a low squat, breathing deep while simultaneously trying to ignore exactly _what_ he was breathing. Only a thin piece of fabric between him and whatever the fuck follicles were in the air. _God_ , he never did like working on the cases with kids. (Kids just reminded him of swings and half-melted ice cream and long afternoon car rides and _ice—_ )

_Okay, cause of death— head trauma._

He headed back inside, deeming most of the evidence had already been bagged— really, him walking the grid at this point was just a pretty bow in the box after the team and Reed had been through (normally, it helped him sort through his thoughts about the case, to focus. Normally). Hank was planning on checking his inferences with the investigative team and then he could—

 _That smell_. Being inside after the ‘fresh’ air made the musty odor of the house far more prominent. Musty and undeniably _chemical_.

“ _Fuck_ ,” he breathed. He tapped the shoulder of a passing technician clad in a bodysuit, “did you guys pick up any substances? Red powder?”

The man turned around to him, eyes widening in recognition, “Lieutenant Anderson? Oh- yes, I think we must’ve bagged a bit. We assumed it had just been recreational—”

“ _Recreational_ my ass,” Hank pushed past the man, heading towards the main clump of forensic scientists. “If you assume you make an ass out of you and me!” he called over his shoulder angrily.

 _Of course,_ his dumb ass hadn’t considered the possibility of red ice being a factor— he hadn’t even smelled it when he walked in, he’d been so damn distracted by Reed’s ugly mop of hair. _God_ , a real cop he was. _What sort of messed up cockfuck murders his fucking daughter?—_ one that was high off his ass and suddenly the most minor disagreement turned into a war ultimatum.

He smiled tersely at the other technicians who scowled at him whilst he probably broke several protocols sifting haphazardly through countless carefully organized plastic baggies. He freed his right hand to point at one of the scientists, “radio out to the officers to be on guard. They’re not just looking for a scared fuck— they’re watching for a guy that’s likely either high or coming down from one, and fast. Make sure they’re aware of the withdrawal symptoms and aggression, _fucking hell_.”

Hank glanced at the forensic technician with a radio in hand, “uh, don’t include that last part.”

He finally dug out a quarter gallon baggie, crystals of blood red packed in. _Only a little bit, fucker_ , he scowled.

He headed back outside, mulling over the possibility of the victim also taking the drug. _With a single father, pressure would be higher_. He’d been so _focused_ on the wrong things— the damage from the collision itself was obvious, but the other details: redness under the eyes, discoloration. Had a year really been enough to fuck him up this bad? It’s not like he’d been on a fucking red ice investigative team, he mocked himself.

The forensics had finally moved out from the yard and Hank found himself alone (as alone as he could be with a corpse a mere ten feet away).

He huffed to himself, exasperated— he didn’t think he’d miss the unflattering Tyvek suits. The sun was beginning to set, basking the lawn in a bright glow. If not for the murder, Hank could almost see it as the location of a random, but pleasant house party he’d been at (who was he fucking kidding— he hadn’t been invited to any parties in a long time). Despite spring being on the way, the air was still chilly enough to bite through his jacket.

He made to kneel down when his ears picked up on a branch snapping. His hand jumped to his holster. A quick scan of the yard’s perimeter showed no signs of movement beside the natural sway of the trees.

 _Fuck_. He was starting to get as twitchy as Reed when he got antsy.

Hank switched out his latex gloves for a new pair, figuring a few hours of sweat and walking around had probably nulled their use. He stared at the girl— the _victim’s_ — face, her expression frozen. It looked . . . scared, almost resigned ( _whoa there_ , he reined his amateur psychoanalysis in).

 _Crunch._ Dry leaves being stepped upon in the icy, half-melted snow.

Hank subtly slowed his breathing, listening over his steadily increased heartbeat. Through the whistling wind, there it was— _twigs breaking_. He kept his movements smooth, tilting his head slightly.

A silhouette.

“You! Walk into the light— Detroit Police. This is a crime scene!” Hank quickly stood and made his way closer, unclipping his holster in one fluid movement.

A rabid yell was all the warning he got before he felt the sensation of a bull ramming into his chest. Hank shoved the figure— a man— back and recognized one William Loughlin: pale sweaty face, disheveled hair, wiry limbs and all.

 _Well, goddamn_. Normally, he’d go through the procedures of citing the arrestee's rights— he shoved Loughlin’s clawed hand away from his face— but he was a bit fucking preoccupied. The DPD would have to forgive him later.

From the bedraggled man’s appearance and muscle twitches, Hank guessed he’d probably been trying to return to the only red ice supply he knew of. An addict’s fear of the law was still just that— a fear. Conscious thoughts meant nothing to a brain addled with chemicals and withdrawal. And naturally, it seemed Loughlin’s brain had determined Hank was a barrier to that next high. _Lucky fucking me_.

“ _Can I get some motherfucking backup?_ ” Hank wheezed as he struggled to stand back up, “suspect is not armed— _fuck_ —” when surprisingly strong arms slammed him back into the ground. They’d rolled a bit away from the body (forensics was really gonna love him) and his head bounced painfully into the icy grass and hard ground.

Hank kept trying to flip the suspect into a hold to cuff him, but _goddamn_ , getting purchase on wet grass was a hell of a lot harder with fucking plasticine foot covers on. It was like grappling with a snake— a heavily drugged, slightly psychotic snake.

Despite the fact that he should’ve been in a weakened state, Loughlin made up for two days without food with desperation. And for Hank . . . it’d been a long fucking week (all the nights waving off Fowler’s advice to get back to regular conditioning was really biting him in the ass).

It was the last hit that got him— Hank felt a loose fist collide with his jaw and the trees turned double. _Shit_.

He was distantly aware of the weight on him being lifted as lights and voices swarmed around him. He couldn’t tell if the heavy breathing pulsing in his ears was his own or the Loughlin’s. Out of his peripheral, he saw an officer restricting the suspect.

He ran a tongue across his teeth— _still got ‘em_. At least he hadn’t fucked up too bad, the fucking run-down cop he was.

Hank felt an arm help him up and his knees buckled. _Fuck._

* * *

Hank woke up with a headache, staring up at a slightly off-white ceiling. His first conscious thought was, eloquently, _shit_. He tried to shift up and the left side of his face burst into nauseating pain. An IV snaked out from his right arm. Great. The first active case Fowler assigned him to in months and he ended up in the fucking hospital.

Damned fucking hospitals, with their antiseptic smell that burned his nostrils and the too-happy nurses and the doctors (always, always with bad news). Whether they were flesh or metal, it was always the same.

A woman entered the room smoothly, closing the door gently as she smiled at him. A bit too wide— his eyes locked onto the blue circle on her temple. The sense of unease only grew as she placed her hand on the computer, skin melting away as she did . . . whatever with the machine.

“Good morning Mr. Anderson, it’s currently 8:48 am, January 19th. It looks like you’re all clear. We’ll be keeping you for a bit longer just to observe you, but you’ll be released in a few hours time,” she held out her hand. “Please give me your arm— I’ll remove your cannula. Your possessions are in a bag to your left— your clothes are in there as well. Fortunately, when we performed a cranial computerized tomography, we determined you do not have a concussion. However, it is still advised you take at least one day of rest. Slight dizziness or disorientation is to be expected. Your supervisor, Captain Fowler, has been informed of your situation.” She continued talking calmly while she gently extracted the needle. Hank was doing his best not to look, feeling queasy despite his unfortunate sobriety.

The android gave another off-putting smile, “someone will come to inform you when you can leave. We hope you’ve had an enjoyable stay at Detroit Medical Center.” She walked outside, looking, for the most part, a human. The only thing that should’ve set her apart would be the glowing LED and triangle emblems, and yet to Hank it just all seemed so fucking _fake_.

Nothing was inherently wrong with her, but she, like the CyberLife desk android, was just too damn _perfect_. There were no small gestures, side glances, unsure movements— distantly he connected the idea that _they weren’t like Connor_. In comparison, the kid wasn’t just scarily lifelike— Hank could see him as a real child.

 _A real child. One to replace the one you lost. The one you_ killed. _Wouldn’t that be nice? Just move on with your damn life._ You can get back up on your feet and make a difference. _People will look at you with something other than pity for once. A real boy, a real s—_

Hank leaned back heavily, hitting his head unnecessarily hard on the wall behind him. The ache was back. But it wasn’t just an ache, wasn’t just something so arbitrary, an out-of-the-blue symptom of that snowy night. Calling it an ache was just avoidance. His eyes burned (it was the cleaning shit they sprayed everywhere).

 _Guilt_.

His thoughts drifted to the previous night— _snow and kids never were the best combination for me_. (Snow and kids and ashes and burials.)

He was shaken from his reverie by the buzz of his phone. Hank groped beside the bed, wincing slightly as he jostled his right arm. His hand wrapped around the rectangular form of a phone and he pulled it out. _Jesus_ , 18 unread messages. He swiped open his phone and felt a hollow smile twitch at his lips.

_You are receiving messages from an android RK800, serial ##313 248 317. All texting charges will apply._

[received at 8:00 pm]

_Lieutenant, I was wondering if you knew what time you will return home?_

_As you didn’t specify what you would like to eat, I have prepared spaghetti for dinner._

_I tried to feed Sumo, but he is currently lying on me again._

[received at 8:35 pm]

_Your dog is not very obedient, lieutenant. Have you considered obedience training?_

[received at 8:41 pm]

_As I am physically preoccupied with being sat on, I have discovered “emoticons”. Things that were popular when you were younger are quite fascinating, lieutenant._

_If you were wondering, I am sending these messages wirelessly. :)_

[received at 9:01 pm]

_I have just extracted myself. I have placed the food in the refrigerator._

_Please inform me when you plan on returning so I can accommodate your arrival. :)_

[received at 11:00 pm]

_I have determined that this is unusually late for you to be absent without communication so I will assume you have been placed on a case._

_Actually, I did not assume. I hope you will not mind, but I got worried so I accessed the DPD’s communications._

_Good luck on your case, lieutenant! :D_

[received at 11:03 pm]

_I have discovered you are currently checked into Detroit Medical Center._

_It appears to be for only minor head trauma, but this is still concerning._

_Please arrange for a taxi to bring you back to your residence. It would be dangerous for you to drive while injured._

[received at 3:39 am]

_I suspect you will not gain consciousness for a few more hours, remember to drink water when you do._

_Also, remember the taxi._

_I hope you feel better soon! :)_

Damn, the android even had a ‘take care of run-down cop’ program. But even if it was just some coughed up, fancy CyberLife shit, Hank couldn’t help how the ache seemed to ease as he stared at the messages (because with all the weird ass nuances of Connor, Hank couldn’t believe it was all just code).

Distantly, as he typed _can’t you let me be hospitalized in peace for one damn moment?_ , he wondered when _that_ had happened. Maybe it was the goddamned miracle of a near-death experience and grappling with Loughlin or just the sheer insanity of the entire fucking week, but somewhere along the line, he’d realized that maybe, _maybe_ , the android dipshit wasn’t terrible.

Before, at a heartbeat, Hank would’ve shrugged off the sight of a disassembled android. Somehow his brain hadn’t figured that the destruction of an android, _dead at the scene_ , could be just as gruesome as a human’s. And the thought of seeing Connor instead of the AX400 lying there, soaked in blue blood and dented up like a broken plastic doll. It didn’t feel right. _Maybe_ _it_ wasn’t _right_.

[received at 8:57 am]

_Lieutenant, I’m glad to hear back from you!_

_Since you are responding, I assume you have not been diagnosed with a concussion. :)_

Hank stared at the smiley face for a moment, almost feeling as if _he_ was the robot that could short-circuit. The android had already used it before (whilst also making a comment that somewhat felt like an ambiguous jab at Hank’s age), but it was just _weird_ seeing it live.

[sent at 8:59 am]

_How do you know im not just doing the microphone text?_

[received at 9:00 am]

_Lieutenant, voice to text would not preserve your spelling errors. Additionally, I find it very unlikely you know how to activate that feature._

He nearly choked on the water he was sipping on from the side table, a strangled laugh crawling from him. No way in hell did CyberLife create this much sass (all the videos he’d glimpsed had clearly shown the CEO to be a stick-up-the-ass kind of guy).

[received at 9:01 am]

_Sumo seems agitated. I will feed him but I advise returning as soon as you can._

_Remember the taxi!!_

Hank noted the break in ‘proper punctuation’. _A real deviant this one._ He tossed his phone back in the bag and reached for his clothes.

The sense of guilt was always going to be there. But maybe, if he could help someone else, it’d stop hurting so damn much. Hank slipped on his shirt quickly, trying to ignore the damp smell that clung to it. Maybe, it’d get easier.

_Perhaps there was still something yet that could rise from the ashes._

He called a taxi.


	4. A Day in the Life

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hank just wants a fun day with the machine that's definitely not his son.

July 17th, 2022

 _Featured interview; publisher:_ Century; by Linda Snowden: _I blow casually on my drink, coffee— black, and pick up my pen and pad, smiling welcomingly at my visitor: Elijah Kamski, enigma and hailed genius of the century, who sits across me, politely refusing any apologies for the cat hair scattered around my apartment. He is every bit of a gentleman as an inventor, laughing aside my flustered apologies._

_“Thank you for joining me today, Mr. Kamski," I greet him, thus beginning an interview with a young man of just twenty that might just become the next household name in America._

_“Yes, it’s lovely to be here. Thank you for having me," Kamski smiles, comfortably shifting back, adjusting his glasses slightly. His slight ruffled look is accurate to a true post-graduate, belying the accomplishment the young man has achieved._

_“Everyone is truly just taken with the developments you’ve made in artificial intelligence, what does it feel like?” I ask, readying my pen._

_He grins sheepishly at the reference to his near overnight rise to fame following his invention and incorporation of the component Thirium 310 to create the first robot to truly pass the famous Turing test. “It’s a dream come true,” he confesses, shrugging humbly, “it was a lucky break following a long few years of research and failed test trials.”_

_The final product of those long few years is a startlingly life-like “android”, affectionately named Chloe. I pull up a photograph of the machine, her bright blue eyes staring out. Despite aesthetic not being the main objective of Kamski’s research, the effort placed in is clear and truly aweing. For his part, it almost seems as if a new side of Kamski is revealed, and a softer smile slips through the mask the man has projected throughout the weeks of interviews._

_“Well, much congratulations to you. If you don’t mind now,” I take out a notebook, well-worn with use and Kamski’s eyes light up in interest, “I’d like to ask some questions I’ve received from some subscribers.”_

_“Of course,” he gestures openly, settling back in my not-quite hazel sofa. “Please, go ahead.”_

_Kamski attentively answers the questions, laughing at some of the answers he gives a bit bashfully, but it’s honest and he takes his time. I flip through the notebook, scanning for more questions as he explains his process of choosing Chloe’s outfit for a particular fashion-oriented subscriber. Once again, I’m blown away by the thought that has gone into every detail . . ._

* * *

 

Connor slowed his automated breathing slightly, conscious of how fragile the state of his current mission was. Any sudden movements could mean failure. He gripped the glass in his hand, conscious of how easily it could shatter if he applied too much pressure or if it fell, spilling water all over the lieutenant’s kitchen. Not only would it result in a mess, it would be a mission _failure_.

He walked slowly, scanning around the living room. No sign of the target. _Safe._

He stepped forward quickly and reached the destination— _first objective, clear._ Connor eyed the hallway, detecting the sound of a weight moving around the lieutenant’s room. Perfect. The target would be occupied for at least three more minutes.

He kneeled down, quickly depositing the water in the bowl, not a drop out of place. _Prevention of dehydration in target accomplished—_

“ _Woof_.”

Connor’s warning sensors flashed as he stumbled back, Sumo suddenly in front of him. His brow furrowed, _the target should have been occupied with smelling the bed._

Sumo’s wet nose bumped into his shoulder and Connor was very aware of the fact he was on the floor. A nonoptimal position to be in when he was intent on being productive and not spending another 3.4 hours occupied by being used as a rug.

He stood up before the dog could pounce and placed the glass safety on the counter. He looked down at Sumo who, despite his canine features, looked almost _disappointed_.

“Good boy,” Connor cautiously spoke, running his fingers down the giant dog’s scalp. The vocalisations and physical connection seemed to calm Sumo. If only all issues had such immediate solutions.

Oddly enough, over the past night, Connor had observed his chest cavity develop a tight sensation, which in itself was likely a harmless side effect of the emotions simulated by CyberLife’s processors, but it failed to meet any of the standards he had felt over the past three days. Despite the fact that he knew the items in his chest— the thirium pump and various tubes and wirings— were perfectly functional, the sensation was decidedly unpleasant. It was a problem to be solved. And so for the last 8 hours and 46 minutes, he’d been running troubleshooting checks on his programs and hard drive, but no explanation had arisen.

While these were running in the background, Connor felt a mild satisfaction in completing his objectives of cleaning the bathroom (post it notes carefully left untouched), organizing the bookshelf, and observing the health of Sumo. As one of the lieutenant’s few companions, he’d come to the conclusion that it would only benefit the hard-boiled man’s mental constitution if the former remaining in prime condition. Thus, the water directive.

Connor looked down at the massive dog, who was now preoccupied with lapping contentedly at the water bowl.

But despite the reward system developed to give him pleasure from completing tasks . . . the irregular stress on his system remained.

Looking to distract himself ( _remain productive_ , he corrected) he made his way to the kitchen counter, spotting a misplaced book he could reshelf. He picked it up and a split second later, calmly placed it back down. _1984._

No, he didn’t want to think about George Orwell and Big Brother because thinking of the numbers and thought analysis made his processors jump to the connection of the lieutenant, and that morning when Connor had made a _mistake_ (burning the eggs had been a result of entertaining unproductive thought experiments—), it made him think of flipping through book pages and reading, _why had he read, scanning was more efficient—_

_78% stress: restart imminent in 5 minutes._

_Stop._

Connor stiffened and relaxed his joints, recalibrating and reevaluating his situation. The internal heat of his interior had risen three degrees, his fans whirring to match. His LED flicked in yellow.

He was a machine, a state-of-the-art prototype that could handle far more than a simple classic novel.

He picked up the book, shelving it by the other _G_ s.

Connor detected a 23% decrease in operations efficiencies. It was an unexpected development, but logical, that his system detected distress while the lieutenant was in the hospital— as he’d determined before, the lieutenant was a valuable beta-tester. It was certainly unusual that such a factor would affect his processing, but it could be attributed to the development of CyberLife’s attempts to recreate the human mind, in all its faults.

This was normal.

_54% stress and decreasing. Systems stabilizing._

Connor pulled up a stool to the kitchen counter and stepped up. A secondary directive he’d set for himself was to clean the mess that was the lieutenant’s dishes— and he always completed his missions.

He used the menial task to focus on his hardware self-check, ignoring the urge to frown as a worrying array of errors popped up in his vision. None were urgent, but problems were still  _problems_. Connor resolved to wait until after his nightly period of stasis to check if any issues persisted. There was no use in bothering CyberLife over something so trivial (he justified that leaving the house abruptly for a simple check-in would likely unnecessarily worry the lieutenant, which had a 76% chance of worsening the man’s condition)

The lieutenant himself was likely on the way back to the house in a cab, with his car still being at the crime scene. Not that Connor trusted the lieutenant to drive after being forcibly knocked unconscious (despite the friendly emoticons Connor had enlisted, his messages had been perfectly serious). Though he doubted his ability to force the lieutenant to have a day of rest— when the man became embroiled about a subject it seemed he did foolish, stupid things, such as being body slammed by the suspect on his case.

It was situations such as this that made Connor question the rationale of CyberLife selecting the lieutenant— it seemed the man would benefit far more from a full-time nanny than a child. Perhaps a PL600.

He finished washing the last plate with scalding water— skin conveniently registering the temperature but not the heat— and stepped down from the sink. He scanned the room, considering his next actions. Perhaps he would prepare the lieutenant an early lunch— if the foods the man consumed regularly thus far were indicative, the lieutenant was likely gagging at any food offered at the hospital.

Connor ran through the inventory he’d saved to memory of the lieutenant’s refrigerator. After running multiple diagnostics he settled on eggs— while the previous meal had ended rather poorly, he was 99.8% sure the data he had downloaded whilst physically encumbered by Sumo would ensure the perfect omelet to welcome back the lieutenant.

The opportunity to test his adaptive capabilities were also not amiss.

* * *

 " _Ah, Philip, that’s an excellent question,” Kamski smiles, mulling it over._

_Throughout the course of the interview, it’s become more apparent to me how the androids have truly come to life— at some fanciful questions, Kamski even has to ruefully shrug his shoulders at._

_“‘Can androids dream?’, and more importantly, ‘do robots dream of electric sheep?’” Kamski joking references the famed novel,_ Bladerunner. _The series has become ever-popular as the discussion over androids has become increasingly heated, no small help from the very man sitting in front of me._

_His expression takes on a more serious tone, “we do have ways of monitoring the android’s equivalent of a brain, and while we’ve tested their receptors during their periods of stasis— essentially an android’s form of sleep— we’re fairly certain in our declaration that androids cannot dream. Ant images or illusions their programming pulls up is simply that— a simulation of the human subconscious._

_“That is not to say that we at CyberLife aren’t trying! With every test and prototype we design, we come closer and close to achieving perfection. Passing the Turing test was a simple stepping stone of the recreation of the human mind . . .”_

* * *

Hank gripped the steering wheel tighter, trying to blink away the slight fog that still clung to his mind. Damn hospitals.

Oddly enough, despite the fairly shitty day before and headache that the android nurse had kindly explained to him _was not a concussion_ , his mind felt _clearer_. Of course, he still had the “I fucking woke up three hours ago and I still haven’t gotten coffee” aura around him, but internally, it felt less cramped. The ache wasn’t gone, but it felt . . . manageable. He hadn’t reached for a glass when he’d hit home at the very least. The radio was playing heavy metal at a comfortable volume of 20, _damn_ , it hadn’t even snowed the previous night— Hank was finally getting a lucky break. Maybe Jeffery had been right.

He glanced to the passenger seat at Connor, who still looked cross following their exchange. The bot never actually looked _angry_ , but Hank could sense the displeasure practically radiating off his circuits. He’d fallen into a sullen silence following Hank’s explanation on how he’d taken the taxi to the station to get his car. Connor hadn’t exactly jumped for joy when Hank also brought up that they were going to the park, and yes, he was driving (even Hank’s mumbled approval of the omelette, which had been pretty fucking delicious, hadn’t placated the angsty robot).

Hank took a deep breath. He had to do this. It’d been over a year.

“I didn’t know that me being distressed would cause you to be upset. I’m sorry, I’m not really displeased, I’m just . . . concerned about your health,” Connor abruptly spoke, looking almost ashamed.

Hank’s brow automatically furrowed in confusion— _what is it apologizing about now?_

The car rolled to a stop as the light turned yellow and he grimaced, “it’s not that. And Jesus, you sound like a broken record, stop with the sorry’s already.” He stared at the cars speeding past, trying to formulate the most coherent way to bring up his _dead fucking son_ . Assuming the tin can didn’t already know about _him_ because apparently, it had hacked into multiple secure databases to track Hank down.

In his peripheral, he saw the flash of the quarter— if Connor’s program was capable of having a nervous tick that’d be it. Hank didn’t even know _why_ he cared so damn much about Connor knowing— it wasn’t like the android was actually sympathetic when he made those fucking puppy eyes.

It was just a machine from the assembly line, literally one of millions.

But . . . not every machine built by CyberLife tried to act like they appreciated Knights of the Black Death. Not every machine simply accepted being squashed by a 170-pound dog and then had the audacity to continue to say _I like dogs_ . Certainly, not every machine made Hank think of _him_.

 _Cole_.

 _Just bite the bullet_.

He eloquently blurred out, “how much do you know about me?”

Naturally, Connor took it at face value, sincerely responding, “once I had confirmed your identity, I searched up your public records. I know you graduated top of your class. You became the youngest lieutenant in Detroit after working on several cases. You drink a concerning amount of alcohol and your dog is . . . abnormal.” He paused, as if considering the other less-flattering parts of Hank he could dissect.

“Okay, hold up,” Hank shifted his grip on the wheel, disconcerted with how the android rattled off the facts as if they were disconnected from reality. Sometimes Hank had trouble associating _himself_ with that person. He took another deep breath. _Focus_.

“I should’ve been clearer: what do you know about my family?”

Connor took longer to answer, mulling over the best possible answer for what he deemed an unfortunate topic (the optimal answer being the one least likely to unnerve the lieutenant to the point of colliding with oncoming traffic). “You had a wife. That’s all I know.”

And fuck if the kid didn’t sound earnest. Hank steeled himself, resisting the urge to just floor the gas— race away from reality with his heavy drums and bass in his ears and eyes. Not that it would do any good. The damn kid was right next to him. He eyed Connor, ever-calm if not a bit confused at the questions. Little happy blue light bulb shining.

“I had a son.” He hesitated, “his name . . . was Cole.”

Speaking it aloud in that raw way almost made it real— it wasn’t yelling or angry. It was resigned. The traitor part of his mind whispered that it was _acceptance_. His voice had a sudden roughness to it, hoarse as if he had been screaming for hours. Which was fucking funny, because he’d thought he’d done a damn good job of only doing that inside his head.

Hank drove into the park and hastily pulled into a stall, still trying to collect his thoughts. He never was good at planning ahead. His sentences came out choppy and about as shaky as he felt.

“It was a snowy night with shitty visibility. I didn’t see the truck and . . .  in the end, he paid for it— all because the human surgeon was too fucking high on red ice to see straight.” Hank felt almost detached from his body, as if a separate version of him was talking than the one gripping the still steering wheel. A part of him that was still angry, a white hot flame sharpened over the months, and then another that was . . . moving on. Letting go.

“He was operated on by an android,” Connor softly spoke as if hesitant to interlude on Hank’s thoughts.

“He didn't make it.” His voice shook.

There was a burn in Hank’s chest, aching and stretching. Even though the heavy metal was pounding just as loudly as before in his ears, it seemed to turn to white static, words indecipherable.

He roughly twisted the key out of the ignition and the radio died— _silence_.

“Do you miss him?”

Hank felt warm tears finally break, a gross choking sound escaping his throat. There was almost something cathartic about the lack of control— different from the messy drunk-crying he frequently lapsed into. Now, it was as if the tension in his chest was a stress ball— clenched and released.

Connor patiently watched him, intrigued by the contrast of the clear noon day and the lieutenant’s streaky face. Perhaps, in some definitions, both could be considered beautiful.

Hank swallowed back a hiccup, weakly smiling at the kid. “I miss him every fucking day.”

* * *

 Approximately 50.6 seconds after the lieutenant had gruffly muttered, “go out and play with the kids or whatever shit you do. I’ll meet you later,” rubbing roughly at his teary cheeks, Connor followed through with his newest directive. The delay had been caused by 20.6 seconds spent registering and restating the lieutenant’s words as an intelligible command, while an additional 30.0 seconds were spent contemplating if he even _should_ (the lieutenant’s stress levels were registered— _68%_. Unusually high).

But regardless of what he _thought_ , Connor ultimately knew he was going to leave the car. It was his mission. He simply . . . executed it with 50.6 seconds excess.

The crunch of gravel against his shoes seemed to reaffirm to him that there was no question to his directive— with his first debriefing with CyberLife on their prototype abilities thus far approaching, he had to emphasize that he could complete directives. _He_ would be a success.

But as he walked directly towards the playground, his vision shifted, his preconstruction program simulating another child walking elsewhere. _Identified: Cole Anderson._ Connor faltered in his step for a moment, watching the child walk to the side, stepping through a sandbox, crouching to pick up a handful. He blinked, dismissing the simulation. _An unrealistic possibility. Not worth putting energy into._

He walked towards the abandoned box despite an unfounded reluctance in his mind. Connor’s visual sensors noted an outlier as he approached— a girl swinging her legs back and forth on the side of a circular rotary platform ( _merry-go-round_ his databases provided), looking as miserable as the clouded skies above. Her eyes were downcast and looked blotchy (Connor’s associative program pulled up an image of the lieutenant).

He made the split-second judgment to change his course— it would be easier to interact with another child if they felt alone, unlikely to leave him in favor of another playmate. _Directive: play with other children._

As Connor approached the girl, he noted the bulky fit of her sweater and messy brown hair. It was odd to see such an unkempt, person, much less a child, in the neighborhood (besides the usual raggedness of the lieutenant, he had been under the impression the neighborhood was of comfortable socio-economic prosperity).

“My name is Connor,” Connor introduced himself matter-of-factly. He held out his hand, a widely recognized gesture of open friendliness. “What’s your name?”

The girl hesitantly looked up and shyly took his hand. “My name is—” Connor’s scanners automatically searched her face up in the CyberLife database. _YK500 model identified_. “—Alice.” She reached out and shook his hand quickly, unsure of what she was doing.

 _No LED . . . ._ Connor frowned, _an interesting choice. The owner decided for discretion_. Was she alone? Where was her owner? Androids couldn’t have real emotions, didn’t have wants— it was as true as the rules that bound his programming— but androids also didn’t look like tired little girls who looked afraid.

Without consciously confirming the action, his hand moved forward at the thought of _wanting_ to understand. But wanting—

A film of white covered Connor’s vision as his hand touched Alice’s. _Connection established . . . Syncing._

Blink. _A house darkened except for the glowing telescreen. The low roar of the sports channel buzzed in his ears as he stared down at the plate set in front of him. Nothing edible— not that he needed to eat. He looked back up at the figure lounging on the couch, meaning to mention the fact he had no need for food when his threat indicators sensed a fast incoming—_

Bam. _A fist hit the table dangerously close to his plate, silverware rattling._

_“You eat when I fucking tell you to you, unappreciative brat!”_

_His processes faltered for a moment, an android’s equivalent of flinching, not from fear but . . . surprise? He didn’t have control of his body as a shaky sob escaped his throat._ Blink. _All at once,_ emotions _swirled, making his vision swim._ No damage was registered to his systems and yet _— dangerously high levels of stress. Impaired cognitive thinking due to unforeseen block._

_“No, dad. I’m sorry I’ll eat all the spaghetti— I— I just wasn’t that hungry,” the words squeaked out of his mouth. He tried to look up at the aggressor but his body was frozen, thirium pump going into unnecessary overdrive at the shifting movement in his peripheral. It was almost like programming— code built to tell him what he could and couldn’t do (bad things would happen if he didn’t comply)._

_The man in front of him went dangerously quiet. Heavy breathing._

Blink. _“I didn’t fucking raise you like this all for that fucking_ plastic _to replace me! So are you going to act nice now when it comes back?” The man, unkempt and harsh-looking, leaned down to be eye level with him and he finally registered the diagnostics on the jittery feeling inside that made him feel like vomiting up his internal storage compartment—_

_“You remember, you fuck things up for daddy, he’s gonna break the toy a lot worse than last time.”_

This _was—_

The connection was forcibly lost as Connor stumbled back, a rough arm around his shoulder. Warnings flashed in his vision as he started at the sight of the man from the transmission. _Identified: Todd Williams, male._

The man, albeit dressed a bit more presentable, was just as profane as his memory. “Get the fuck away from her!”

Alice, oddly enough, didn’t look that displeased. She almost looked . . . _disappointed?_ “Da—”

“ _Don’t you goddamn start_. We’re going straight fucking home,” Williams growled, almost looking more aesthetically displeasing with an expression of territorial dominance on his face (his association program registered a prehistoric mammal as a reference), a possibility Connor hadn’t known was possible.

He watched idly as Alice meekly walked away with her ( _owner?_ ) father and he felt a sensation of something he would call concern. More concerning was the sudden rise in processing power suddenly available as one Todd Williams lumbered away. A sensation comparable to the human emotion of ‘relief’.

But to be relieved would be to suggest he had been emotionally distressed. Connor had expected the YK500 to have a different mental construction as a complete simulation of a child, including more comprehensive emotions, but the brief data transfer shouldn’t have lasted beyond . . . .

An achy, looking-over-a-pit vertigo feeling overtook him as his mind formulated a hypothesis: when CyberLife had programmed him to be a fully adaptive, self-learning android . . . . _More data is needed to pull sufficient results._ But the feeling coiled around his wires didn’t require special diagnosis. After all, he was programmed to recognize it in others. But he was, in no other way to describe it, _feeling_ it as well.

This was _fear_.

A familiar shout snapped him out of his blank reverie. “Hey, Connor! What’re you doing over here, took me forever to find you.” He looked up to see a slightly out of breath lieutenant walking over.

Connor forced a smile, dedicating more processors to his current problem. “Sorry, lieutenant!” He scanned the man’s face, reddish cheeks still bearing dried tears. He glanced around the vicinity, noting they were unfortunately alone, “I’m sorry, lieutenant. I did meet someone but they had to leave. While we didn’t play, I had a very interesting . . . conversation with her.”

The lieutenant looked baffled, “what . . . play? Oh. _Oh_ ,” his mouth tiredly smiled as he remembered his instructions.

Seeing the lieutenant wasn’t going to take the initiative to continue their previous discourse, Connor locked eyes with him. “Are you okay, lieutenant?”

The smile flashed back silently. His databases’ default diagnosis was the oral gesture described by most as a ‘smile’ was a positive response, perhaps it was the vestigial redness in the lieutenant’s eyes or the man’s unusually low blood-glucose levels, but Connor had the premonition that it was not as simple as a single input-output. Responses would differ, _humans_ differed.

Connor wasn’t sure how he felt about that— he wasn’t sure if he even _felt_.

The lieutenant stared at Connor’s face for 0.6 milliseconds longer than necessary and there seemed to be an expression of distress on his face.

“Are you sure you’re okay, lieutenant?”

The grizzled man was almost hesitant, “actually, are . . . _you_ alright?”

Connor looked blankly in return, “why would I not be fine?”

There was a moment of trepidation, the two staring at each other uncertainty.

“Connor, why are you crying?"

* * *

 [from the editing history of Snowden, Linda]

[cut from article]

_“So, is there any chance of these miracle creations to, in a rather basic way to say it, go ‘terminator’ on humanity?” There’s a hint of humor in my voice, but Kamski considers the question solemnly, aware of the heavy responsibility it brings._

_“I want to be able to say ‘no’ definitively, but I think these androids are definitely on their way to becoming human,” here he awkwardly chuckles, lightening the tension. “What that means is, there’s no truly correct answer— of course, if you only use their programming as a basis, the answer is no, but we’re dealing with highly complex, super-intelligent computers here, truly state-of-the-art. In other words— we have no true concept of the limit these machines can go to: their potential is perhaps greater than humans.”_

_“Do you think these androids would then be capable of a sort of uprising against humans?” I ask, referencing the bulk of content from 20-21st-century science fiction._

_Kamski looks sad at the prospect, not unlike a parent reluctantly accepting that teenage rebellions are not only inevitable but possibly already starting. “It’s a catch-22 for me— of course, I want to create the best product for CyberLife, but as a scientist and inventor, wouldn’t creating a new life be the ultimate accomplishment? If they truly are a life form, I don’t think I can speak for their consensus on an uprising [laughs]. But I’d like us all to keep this in mind— life always seeks to overcome.”_

_He pauses for emphasis and his chilling words that follow stick with me long after: “and I assure you, they will overcome.”_

[end of cut]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Who knows where this is going hahhh, thanks for sticking with me!

**Author's Note:**

> Beta'd by the amazing Kyu. Thank you for enduring my long lapses of silence and productivity in all the wrong things :,)


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